A Tale of two Hatreds
The two enemies locked blades. Shields cast aside, broken and useless.
Guild-forged steel of excellent craftsmanship ground against the opposing blade made of thick slabs of stone-iron, cut in jagged brutal portions.
They’re eyes locked in stares of hatred as they pushed the two axes into each other, each putting as much force behind the blades as possible. Double handed - grips like iron, shoulders locked, spines arched forward and legs braced.
A loss of balance would be followed by a deathblow.
The crudely armed of the two towered over his opponent, but the foeman was so broad and thickly muscled, his bones so strong that his size hardly helped him in a test of strength like this.
Sweat trickled down the shorter combatant’s forehead, stinging his eyes but he dared not look away or blink from his stare at his opponent. The other was leaking black blood from his side where a quarrel was firmly imbedded and stuck out two hand breadths.
Hringir, Master of the Fist stood in bronzed armour, all rounded edges of exquisite craftsmanship. His tabard and under-clothes was of blue cloth, denoting his Clan and loyalty. His helm had two broad wings on either side of his head; his broad thick nose was protected by a wedge of metal extending down from the middle of the helm. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air as he pushed harder. The helm came down over either cheek, leaving his chin open to allow his thick braided beard to spill down over his chest, nearly to his belt.
All around him, the Fist: a fighting force of fifty dwarves of the Kharak-Dur Clan lay dead around their feet. He knew this all too well as his stare bore at his enemy. It was by his hands that they would be avenged. The enemy shall not be forgiven!
On the other side of the locked blades two little red eyes stared back, little black pupils ringed in black veins. His ugly face locked in a grimace of pain and rage. His form was covered in a massive shirt of heavy chainmail, his huge shoulders made even more prominent by the spiked armour-plates they carried. His helm was horned, some great bull’s horns. There was no visor for no ordinary helm would be able to take the distended jaw that occupied it.
Baran-Thul, Warchief of the Stone-faces howled silently inside. Here before him was one of the Great Enemy. His clan, his family and warriors lay dead around them. The knowledge tore at his feral heart like a trapped animal. Another sin to be laid before the feet of his more hated foe. The enemy shall not be forgiven!
They had been hacking and slashing through scores of the foe before they had reached each other, no other warrior had slowed them down. They had traded blows for over an hour as the last of either force had died. Baran-Thul had been knocked off his feet as Hringir had executed the last of the orc clan.
Now they were all that remained.
Neither could tell who started first, the orc began to roar his rage as the dwarf responded in a deep bass tone, a war-dirge of terrible power and sadness. A simultaneous shove sent both combatants stumbling. Hringir went down on one knee and readied his weapon, while the orc gathered himself in a charge, swinging down one handed with massive strength.
Quicker that he looked, Hringir dashed side-ways and the crude axe crashed into the stone surface where he had been, the axe clove straight into the rock. As quick as his sidestep, the dwarf lashed out with his axe, aiming for the neck of his opponent. Baran-Thul had anticipated the move and caught the haft of the axe with his free hand and rammed his forehead down into the dwarf’s.
Hringir felt his nose break as the force of the blow bent his nose-guard into his face. Blood flowed down his beard as his head recoiled backwards from the blow, his helm flying free. He stumbled down the slope they had been battling on.
The orc had let go of his embedded weapon and had instead held his grip on the foeman’s weapon instead as the dwarf rolled to a stop some meters below him on the slope. Baran-Thul transferred the weapon into his right hand. The handle was far too small, but the weapon was sharp and very sturdy. He realized suddenly that the dwarf had not halted his terrible death-dirge.
The dwarf lifted an open hand from the ground as he stood and dipped his fore and middle-finger in the blood in his beard. Hringir shouted suddenly “Hjetda!” and struck the blood on a rune on his other forearm. The axe started to glow with intense heat as it burnt Baran-Thul’s hand.
In rage and spite, instead of dropping the blade, he threw it as far as he could down the slope, it spun many hundreds of meters before it disappeared from his sight. His hand was a cooked mess, the smell pungent. He stared down at his opponent, realising the pain and mutilation had made his slip his concentration from his foe.
The Master of the Fist was sprinting up the slope, somewhere he had acquired a shield from an Kharak-Dur clansman and he braced his shoulder into it as he rammed he shield into the orc’s midriff, driving the air from his lungs. A swing of the shield dashed the orc against the side of his head and then the dwarf was gone from Baran-Thul’s vision.
Hringir had dropped down on his side before the orc and then hooked an arm around one of his legs, ramming the edge of the shield into the back of the orc’s knees while rolling and pulling the orc down he toppled his opponent, still reeling from the two impact he had received.
Baran-Thul’s world span round and round as he tumbled down the slope. For one or two rolls his opponent had been with him and then he was gone. He got up and snatched a broad cleaver from the ground before him.
The Warchief stared up as the Master of the Fist brought a dwarfish crossbow to his sights.
With a -twang- the crossbow flung a bolt and it found its mark, skewering the orc’s right leg.
A moment later another quarrel imbedded itself in the middle of his stomach.
Baran-Thul stared up at the dwarf, blood still running down his beard, helmetless with long hair in disarray, battered, hurt but still defiant. He was loading another bolt into the crossbow.
With one last spurt of strength he flung the cleaver at the dwarf as the final -twang- sent a quarrel into his eye, striking him dead. Never forgiven!
Hringir felt triumph as his shot hit its mark and when he looked away from the sight on the crossbow he was just in time to see the flash of a large piece of metal as the cleaver struck him in his shoulder. Biting deep into him in the gap between shoulder-plate and neck.
He sunk down to his knees as blood bloomed out of the wound and he felt it rush down his body. With great effort he turned his head to see the twin silvered peaks of his homeland far over the summits of the nearer mountains. The Clan had been avenged, the Fist had regained its honor.
He coughed, blood spewing from his mouth and he toppled forward with a weary sigh as he died.
Never forgiven!
The Clan of Stone-faces had been avenged, the warchief had earned honoured in the eyes of his ancestors.
Above, the messenger ravens of the dwarf baggage train cawed, circling. They were soon joined by the vultures of the Savage Peaks. The different birds settled down amongst the dead and began to feast. Indiscriminate and without squabbling. There was plenty carrion to go around.
Hatred had claimed many this day.
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